Why?
by Forrest
Summary: This isn't actually based on the film Memento but its working on the idea of waking up and having no memory. Its a tad depressing but hopefully you'll enjoy it. Please rr.Thanks


She woke with a start. The windows were open and the wind was causing the curtains to billow inwards to the room. She sat up in bed and saw her wide-eyed reflection in the wardrobe mirror staring back at her. To her left the bed was empty. She felt the sheet and it was cold. She shivered slightly as goose pimples rose up all over her torso. She closed the window and the curtains were still but she still couldn't shake the dread inside. Her body still felt cold and her mouth was dry with what she thought was fear. Everything was as it should be on first sight, even his work shirt was hanging on the back of the door, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

She moved from the window around the bed and padded with bare feet into the bathroom. All of his toiletries were still there. Back to the bedroom and his clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe. Her puzzled reflection meeting her eyes as she closed the door on all that was his. Further inspection saw his keys still lying on the kitchen table. His coat still hanging in the hall. But something just wasn't right. She felt as if she'd woken up in a parallel world. Everything was here but him. He was missing and despite his belongings there was nothing to suggest he'd been here at all.

Confusion flooded her head. She went to pick up the phone but there was no dialing tone, where it had been ripped from the socket. Next to it a collection of empty wine bottles sat on the floor beside a smashed glass. One of the expensive ones she clocked, he'd be mad about that. That was when she realized by the dull ache in her skull; that she had drunk the wine, she had broken the glass. Something wasn't right, why would she drink bottles of wine and leave a broken glass on the floor? Why would she rip the phone from the socket?

What day was it? What month? How long had she been sleeping? Why was she so afraid of the answers to every question that flitted into her brain? Her calendar said it was January, and her clock that it was 3.15 in the afternoon. But if that was the case why was it still light outside? If it was Monday like her calendar said then maybe that's where he was at work. She'd been left at home because she slept through the alarm or some such bullshit. But if he was at work then why was his shirt hanging on the back of the door? The shirt she so carefully ironed for him. When did she iron it? Was that yesterday? It felt like a forgotten dream.

If he were at work then why were his keys still on the table like he'd just come home and put them there? She went back into the kitchen and they were still there, lying on the table almost accusingly. She went to the sink and almost heaved. It was full of dirty washing up infested with mould. Vomit covered the plates and inside both maggots wriggled. This was like a bad dream, she just wanted to go back upstairs and hide from all the clues that this life wasn't quite hers.

So she went back upstairs and sank down on her side of the bed. Her eyes caught the sight of his shirt hanging there. Something within her moved her into action. Her mobile lay on the bedside table and she picked it up and switched it on. The jovial melody hurting her hung over state. It beeped, and beeped again, and again, and again. Texts were coming in thick and fast. Eventually it went quiet and with dread she opened the first one. She threw it away from her. She wouldn't believe it. It wasn't true. That wasn't how this situation would go. She was scared, afraid, and sick all in one breath.

She fell to the floor and rocked herself, her arms clasped around her own stick thin limbs. How long since she'd eaten? She didn't know, all she knew right now was that this dream wasn't true. But then the dread hit again and doubt clouded her mind. If it wasn't true, where was he? Why hadn't he taken anything with him? Why was her phone ripped from the socket? Why did she have the hang over head of all those bottles downstairs? Why did she break one of the expensive glasses and why would she have drunk alone? Why was his side of the bed cold? Why hadn't they done the washing up? Why did she feel so alone, so trapped and so helpless?

Why was his shirt still hanging on the bedroom door?

The goose pimples rose again. But this time the window was closed. Why was she so cold? Why did it feel like an icy hand was clutched around her heart? Why was her head so cloudy? Why couldn't she remember what day it was and what date? Why were there so many unanswered questions? Why was his shirt still hanging on the bedroom door? That was what un-nerved her most of all. It was like a bad omen. She would always iron a shirt for him and he'd thank her and kiss her lips softly at first and then harder, pressing his body against hers. She'd iron his shirt and then it would lead to his naked body against hers.

So why was his shirt still hanging on the bedroom door?

There was only one answer to all of the questions and that was what she dreaded most of all. More than the darkness in her mind now was the fear of the light that answer could hold. It would break down all the barriers and she would seep out of herself unable to hold onto the shell in which she lived. She'd be afraid and challenging her own mind. Unsure of her whole world. But was that not what she was living now? Her head ached and she stumbled to the bathroom for some pills. She washed them back with water from the tap. Her mouth tasted slightly of dried vomit and that was when she realized that she had thrown-up in the sink.

Her head was like a carousel of un-answered questions all vying for a chance to be heard. All afraid to be unseen before they were hidden at the back of her mind away in that darkness of un-knowledge. She'd put everything back there. The questions, the answer that she hid from, the text message that shed light on the whole goddamn affair. She wouldn't believe it. It couldn't be true. Her life couldn't end that way. She'd fight it in every way she could. A tear smashed onto her hand, and she couldn't pretend that she wasn't crying anymore. She felt like she had nothing to cry about if she stayed in the world of questions.

But could she live in that world day to day. She had for some amount of time. But for how long? The doorbell jolted her to her senses. Well to the senses she allowed herself to have. She dragged herself down the stairs and to the door and opened it, praying that it was he. That he'd forgotten his keys. Left them on the table. But of course it wasn't him. The questions all pushed into her, stunned her brain. Her parents stood at the door, anxious looks on their faces. Anxious for her, not for him. He was past anxious looks now, those faces told her. He was gone. She had to carry on. Let them clear away his belongings. Let them clear up the kitchen, the plates, the vomit, and those maggots. We will cook for you, take care of you, and make everything better again those faces lied.

Her body and mind fought with the options and her body won. Exhaustion from the weeks, maybe even months of her living like this had taken its toll. They entered and tried not to look shocked. They cleared up the mess. The bottles, the glass, and the mess in the kitchen. They took away everything that told her that he was still here. She sat and merely watched with tears running down her face, feeling like she'd woken in the wrong life.

Her mother took her upstairs. Tucked her into bed as if she was a child again. Gave her food to spoil her and make her feel better. But nothing worked. Her mother stroked her hair to encourage her daughter to sleep as her father entered with a black bin liner. He cleared the wardrobe of everything and his hand reached for the shirt hanging on the back of the door.

"Leave it", was all she said.


End file.
